


winter flower

by abrahamsdaughterraisedherbow



Series: seasons [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Baby, Birth, F/M, Gen, Pregnancy, blizzard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrahamsdaughterraisedherbow/pseuds/abrahamsdaughterraisedherbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blizzard strikes. With Peeta stranded at the mayor's place and Haymitch passed out at home, a heavily pregnant Katniss must have her wits about her. post-Mockingjay, pre-epilogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter flower

**Author's Note:**

> So the birth is a bit graphic...discretion is advised.

My eyelashes part, allowing only a sliver of light into them.

“Katniss?” I open my eyes and a kind face with blond hair swims into my vision. Peeta.

I smile sleepily, my eyelids drooping lazily and opening again. “Hi.”

We are lying in bed together, his arm under my head, his other hand on my cheek.

Peeta leans forward and kisses me. I smile and pull myself as close as I can to him, fingers threading through his hair. I am hindered only by my large, round belly, to which Peeta has moved his hand, rubbing in slow circles to calm the stirring baby inside of me.

Peeta is the first to break the kiss. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“How's the baby?”

“Fine, I think,” I murmur drowsily, still too comfortable to open my eyes. “Moving.”

“Mmm,” says Peeta, and I hear the smile in his voice.

I am a little under nine months pregnant. My due date is about three weeks away, and Peeta and I have been waking up like this for almost a week now. He knows that I am frightened, since this is our first baby. I hadn't planned on having them at all until Peeta suggested it. Peeta wanted kids. He's wanted them for a long time. After fifteen years of trying to bring me around to the idea, I finally agreed. I can still hear the clatter of Peeta's plate dropping to the floor right after I told him.

We tried for a baby. We tried many times. It took a little while, because my body, as well as my mind, had to re-adjust from the effects of the war. Finally, one spring morning, I went to the doctor for the strange cramps I'd been feeling in my lower belly and the aching in my breasts. I ended up puking into the sink just as she walked in the door. Concerned, she took my temperature and then ran blood work. I was called back a week later. Thinking I was ill, I was a bundle of nerves as I walked into the doctor's office. She was beaming at me, and she stood up when I walked in.

“Ms. Everdeen - “

“What's wrong with me?” I blurted, unable to take any more suspense. “What do I have?”

She laughed.

“Oh, honey. You don't have anything. You're pregnant.”

Since that day, time has passed in a blur of anxiety, doctor's visits, and preparations for the baby's arrival. As my belly grew, so did my worries. But Peeta is here.

Peeta has been wonderful, as always, and I still can't believe he deals with what I put him through. From the moment I told him, he has done nothing but try to keep me comfortable and happy while starting to re-organize our lives to make room for the baby.

Today, there's not much he can really do to keep me comfortable. I'm so huge that it's difficult to find a good position in which to sit or lie down.

To make things worse, Peeta suddenly starts to move away from me.

“Wait,” I grasp his shirt sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“I have to go to the mayor's place. I'm catering an event he's doing.”

“Don't go,” I mumble, tugging him back down to me. He chuckles and lets me pull him to the bed and into my arms. I give him a very sleepy kiss on his temple, his face buried in my shoulder as I hug him.

Peeta pulls away to face me, the tip of his nose barely touching mine.

“I love you,” he says, and after all these years together he never seems to lose any of the warmth in his voice when he says it.

“I love you,” I say back.

Peeta gives me another kiss, a gentle one right on the side of my nose.

“I'm sorry. I want to stay here with you. But I have to go. Mayor's orders. They had invited you, but I said you weren't coming. You're too close to giving birth and I didn't want to have you away from home just in case something happened.”

“But you're going to be away from home.”

“I won't be gone any more than a few hours at the most. I promise.”

Then Peeta does get up, as much as I don't want him to. I hear him moving around and getting on clothing, but I'm so tired I don't keep my eyes open to watch him.

Some time later I feel Peeta's lips press gently to my head.

“I'll be back later today. If you need anything, get Haymitch.”

“Okay.”

“Are you comfortable?”

I chuckle. “I haven't been comfortable for weeks.”

I crack open my eyes a bit as the bed dips. I feel Peeta's hand on my shoulder. “Let me get you some pillows, okay?”

I nod. My eyelids droop closed again. I feel Peeta gently lift my knee and put a pillow between my legs. He then slips a pillow under my elbow. I automatically wrap my arm around it.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing my eyes open to smile at him. “Thank you.”

I feel the bed dip again and Peeta presses his lips to my cheek in a series of small, gentle kisses.

“I'll be back soon.”

And then he's gone.

* * *

 

I wake to the snow howling outside.

With some difficulty, I sit up. It can't be any later than early afternoon, though the dark storm clouds outside make it impossible to tell without a clock. I glance at the one on our wall. It's around noon.

I move to the edge of the bed, letting my swollen feet rest on the floor as I stand up. I feel the all-too-familiar bend in my back from carrying this heavy baby. I begin to wonder about what this day will hold in Peeta's absence.

Then I feel it. A twinge of pain in my abdomen.

No. Oh no.

I sit back down on the bed, my hand on my stomach. No. No, this isn't happening. It's not.

It's a fake contraction. That must be it. It's fake. One of the fake ones that the doctor mentioned.

So then, I have no reason to worry. But I do not leave the bed.

Another pain, stronger than the last, starts to build from inside me about a half hour later. I hunch over, grabbing the metal bar of the bedframe, gasping at the intensity of the horrible clenching agony in my lower belly.

Another three contractions over the next few hours, and I can no longer deny it.

I am in labor.

I let out a breath. _You have time_ , I tell myself calmly. _This kind of thing takes hours. It'll take hours. Peeta will get home in time, and we can call a doctor to deliver the baby. Everything will be fine._

The wind roars from outside the window.

* * *

 

Six hours have passed.

It's nighttime now, but the blizzard rages on.

The power is still off. There are no lights outside my window from any nearby houses. Inside, I've lit a candle or two, but they only give off so much light.

I have barely moved from the edge of the bed, except to light the candles when the power went out. Now I lie on my side, clutching my belly and panting. In my other fist I still have the metal bedframe, cold against my sweaty hand as I fight contraction after contraction, which have only grown closer together with how long I've been here.

It's overwhelming. I've felt pain, but none as bad as this.

I need my husband.

How is Peeta going to get home? For that matter, when?

* * *

 

It's been nine hours now. The blizzard has had periods of stopping before it hits again with a vengeance an hour or so later. I'm sure Peeta is stranded at the mayor's house, and I have no way of getting ahold of him. I would call Haymitch, but the phone line's dead and he's likely passed out at home.

I groan. I didn't want to do this by myself. I'm frightened to death, and I need Peeta here to chase the fears away. Now I'm alone in the house with them.

I squeeze my eyes shut as another contraction rips through me. God, I can't do this. I can't push this baby out. Something will happen. It'll be too big. Or it'll come out backwards. Or, god forbid, I'll do something to damage it.

I fight to slow down the hyperventilation that has already begun. _No. No. Focus. You're by yourself. You have to do this. There is no other way._

Slowly, I hoist myself up when the contraction ends. I know I only have a few minutes before another one hits, so I move as quickly as my body will allow me to move toward the closet in the hallway.

I grab blankets and towels. I'll need some for wherever I give birth so I can clean up the mess. Then I need some for the baby when it comes out.

Once I seem to have enough of what I need, I waddle back into the bedroom and set the pile on the floor. Where will I have this baby? It seems only sensible to give birth on the bed, but the idea of being confined to it strikes fear into my heart. Another contraction suddenly sends me to the floor, and I rock on my hands and knees through it, almost not noticing the discomfort from kneeling on the rough, grainy carpet. I feel safe to make as much noise as I feel like making because no one is here to hear me, so I groan loudly.

When that contraction's done, I crawl toward the pile of blankets and towels that I had temporarily discarded. I'm going with what my body feels most comfortable doing, and right now, that does not include the bed. I take some towels from the pile and spread them onto the carpet in front of the bed. I slip out of my underwear and toss it on the floor. Then I take the pillows I was sleeping on and put them down in front of me so I can lean forward onto them when contractions hit. I carefully lower myself to the floor and kneel on the towels, making sure they're where they need to be. All seems to be in place. Now to wait for the baby.

It seems I may not have long to wait. As if seized by an invisible force, I reach both hands under me to feel for the baby, leaning forward slightly. The baby isn't coming out yet, but I know it must be close. I'm panting, chest heaving, stomach rising and falling rapidly. I know I will have to push soon.

I wish Peeta was here. I'm sure Peeta would wish the same, if he had any idea what was happening. What a nice surprise he'll get when he gets home.

I cry out at the next contraction, my yell ending in what I think is a grunt. Once it's over, I flop into my pillows. That was a terrible one. I want to push. I don't know how to check myself, but I figure it out. I poke a finger far enough in to note that I can't feel the baby's head, and that's enough checking for me. I really want to push, but there's nothing there, so I lean forward onto my pillows and rock my hips from left to right. It helps a bit, but not much. I can almost feel Peeta's nice, warm hands on my back, soothing me through labor. That's what he would be doing right now.

I groan. The pressure is awful and only getting worse. I have to be close to pushing, because I want to do it, but I know that the baby isn't close enough yet. As the pressure intensifies, so does my want.

 _Don't push_ , I think furiously, despite everything in my body screaming at me to do otherwise. _You can't push yet. It's not ready. You're not ready. Don't push. Don't push._

I decide I won't let myself push until I absolutely can't resist the urge any longer. I don't want to do something wrong and hurt the baby. And since I have no idea what I'm doing, it seems best to be safe.

At the next contraction I actually scream aloud, and by some insane desire I pray that Peeta heard it. I need him. This baby is coming and I don't know what to do. I don't know how to take care of it. Peeta will know. I won't.

“No,” I choke, my arms braced around my belly. “No, stop. I want this to stop.”

As if I really think I could make this stop. Tears begin to fill my eyes.

“Please,” I whisper.

I know I could never stop it even if I wanted to. I don't know who I'm pleading with anymore.

“Please,” I whisper again.

As if in reply, another wave of unbelievable pain hits. I yowl, falling face-first onto the pillows, my hands clenching into fists. I want to push. I want to push.

A gush of fluid hits my feet and my breath catches. It's coming. It's really coming and there is no one here to deliver it. I don't know how to deliver any baby, let alone deliver my own into my hands.

I try to breathe. It can't be that complicated. I just have to catch it, don't I?

Then I get another contraction and I remember. Oh. The pushing. I have to do that too.

When, though? It has to be soon. As soon as the contraction's gone I check myself again, and this time, I am startled to feel something warm and solid against the pad of my finger. That has to be the head. As soon as this realization hits, so does another contraction. I have to push. I have to push.

I realize I need to get in whatever position I'm going to have this baby, and I'd better do it quickly. As if on cue, my body forces me to stand, one hand clenching the bedpost. I make sure there are towels under me to catch any fluid or blood. I breathe. This is it. This is it. Breathe. Be calm.

My hands are shaking. Another wave hits me, and I know this one is it. I'm going to push.

So I take a deep breath and I push. I really push, and my knees seem to naturally bend as I do so. It hurts beyond belief, but it almost feels good, too. It's what my body is supposed to be doing with this baby on its way. Pushing it out. And it means that labor will be over, and there's little more I want right now than that.

When my urge to push dies back down, I reach down to feel my progress. Nothing.

I give an exasperated groan. I've never done this before, so I have no idea how long this part will take.

The blizzard continues to howl outside. It's dark now, the only light coming from the candles I've lit in our bedroom. I'd almost prefer it this way. The calm and quiet glow from the candles is comforting.

I push again, both hands gripping the metal bar on the bedframe, bearing down with what feels like every muscle in my face, chest, stomach, legs, and bottom. It has to be at least a little bit closer now, with how hard I'm pushing. I want this thing out.

I grunt and growl and strain for a few more minutes before I rest again. I feel down there and still nothing, really. I briefly wonder if I should get a mirror before another contraction hits and I realize that I can't hold a mirror while I'm giving birth.

I make sure to keep my legs spread far enough so that this child can come out. I push again, and suddenly I can feel how close the baby's head is. It's painful, so painful, but I grit my teeth and press on. There's no stopping this baby now.

With the next push I make progress. I know this because when I stop, I can feel it. The small throbbing sensation coming from that area causes me to feel around, and I feel it again. The tiniest bit of the warm, solid head is starting to come out.

“Come on,” I growl, bearing down again. I push until suddenly I feel burning. I stop. Is something wrong? I feel around and discover that the baby's head is beginning to crown. I have to assume that it's normal to feel stinging because I have an uncontrollable urge to push and I must follow it. I push again and the burning worsens.

“Nngh!” I scream, but I can only stop for a breath. My body is forcing me to push. I have little control over it now. I am pushing so hard I can't make any noise, and I feel like every vein in my face is about to burst. But I can also feel the baby making progress, and that keeps me going.

I push again, and again, and again. I rock my hips to lighten up pressure. I breathe. I moan. I scream.

Finally, I notice that I have pushed all the way to the forehead. I groan in frustration. It's taking forever and it feels like I'm being slowly torn in half. I thought I'd be further by now.

“Come – _out_ ,” I snarl, pushing again. I put my hands on the baby's head. It's warm, slimy, and solid, and I feel some silkiness that I know is its hair. I wonder if it will have dark hair like mine or blonde hair like Peeta's.

I am spared further contemplation of this when I am seized by my next contraction. The awful stretching, stinging, burning feeling worsens every second, my scream growing louder and louder...

And there's the head. It's out. I've rounded a corner, but I'm not done. I take a few deep breaths. I try not to let myself relax just yet, though there is a bit of relief that comes with feeling the baby's head sticking out of me.

I'm exhausted from standing. With one hand still on my baby's head, I slowly lower myself down into a squat, noting with some relief that this is a semi-comfortable position to give birth in. For the first time, I can look down and see how much progress I've made. Once the initial shock of seeing the baby's head between my legs passes, I reach down and touch the baby's face. Dark hair is plastered to the head. The eyes are shut, the face a light purple.

That's odd. I feel the part of its neck that's out and feel, with a jolt of dread, a slimy umbilical cord.

I loop a finger around it almost instinctively and pull the cord over the baby's head and off of its neck. Now I have to get it out. What if it can't breathe?

I push immediately. The shoulders are just as awful as the head, if not worse, and a scream rips its way through my throat. I really want to stop pushing for a few minutes. My body isn't allowing it, so I keep going, wiping everything else from my mind except getting my baby out and into my arms.

I take a breath and push again, my hands ready to catch the baby. I make enough progress for the baby's head to turn. I don't even prepare myself for the final push. I am ready.

I gather up whatever strength I can find and push hard. Once I've passed the shoulders, I watch the arms come through. With me guiding it, the baby slides out of me onto the towel, along with what looks like a river's worth of fluid and blood and goodness knows what else.

It's out. It's out. I gave birth to a baby and it just came out. I lift it off of the towel and up to my chest immediately. I feel the baby's slippery skin touch mine as I sit up and fall back against the bedframe. My hand on its back, I grab a blanket and cover the baby with it. I'm still breathing hard as I put a trembling hand over my eyes. It's over. I can't believe it's finally over. 

Then I realize that the baby hasn't made a sound.

I grab another blanket and do what I've seen my mother do with a baby that is taking a long time to cry. I start to rub the blankets over the baby, maybe start something going in the heart or lungs.

“Please,” I gasp, tears already falling, fear already chilling me to the bone. I can't have had a dead baby. I'll die too. “Please. Cry.”

Suddenly I feel a squirming against my chest, and my whole world stops. I brush back the towels to see the baby's face turn from a light purple to a bright red. Its mouth opens and it gives a small gurgling cry, then it begins to really wail. And it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

I gasp, my eyes filling rapidly at the sound of its cries. I can't stop looking at my baby, can't stop drinking it in. I am already so in love. Then I suddenly realize I haven't even checked its gender. One quick lift of the blankets, and I know.

It's a girl. A baby girl.

I look at its face, her face, and I start to weep. She is so, so beautiful. My daughter.

“Hi,” I say, laughing and crying.

I hold her close to me and sob as she starts to slow her own crying. For good measure, I grab another blanket and spread it over her. I want her to be warm. As I embrace my child, happy and relieved tears streaming down my cheeks, it occurs to me that I never want to let her go.

I'm still crying as I adjust her into the crook of my arm and gaze down at her. We did it. By some sheer miracle, we did it. And now my baby is in my arms at last. I feel joy, relief, and the strongest, scariest love I've ever known. One or two of my tears lands on her soft, sweet face.

She begins to squirm after a few moments, and makes unhappy little noises that hint at eventual fussing.

I know, at least, I think, that she might be hungry. I unbutton my nightgown and bring the baby up to my breast. I don't know how to make her latch on, so this takes a few moments to figure out. Once she has found her food source, she immediately begins suckling. It feels strange, but it doesn't hurt.

“There you go,” I tell her softly, stroking her rosy little cheek.

When she is done, her tiny eyelids suddenly squeeze and open, and our eyes meet for the first time. I well up again at how blue hers are. They're Peeta's eyes. It makes me wish more than ever that Peeta had been here with me for this. But I am her one and only for a few moments. And in those moments I surrender my life to this little baby. She is mine, and I am hers.

I lean down and kiss her small head, feeling her soft dark hair on my lips. She is calm now, and it does not take long for her to go to sleep, her head on my heart, her hand clenching a fistful of my hair.

It only takes a glance out of the window at the continuously falling snow that brings back any worries. My life might have changed drastically in this dimly lit bedroom, but the atmosphere outside has gone on as if nothing had happened. I have to hope that it'll stop soon, so Peeta can come home to see his daughter. And speaking of my daughter, I have to keep her warm while the power's off. Suddenly this little life in my arms seems even more vulnerable. I hold her close, curling over her protectively.

“We're okay,” I whisper.

She doesn't seem to be cold now, which is good, but I'm paranoid about the slightest breeze rolling across her fragile skin. I've seen too many sick babies on my mother's kitchen table. I push the thoughts out of my mind and grab the last blanket from the pile, covering my daughter with it. She has to stay warm.

I suddenly realize that I am completely spent. Every muscle is sore and in desperate need of rest. I know I can't move, though, until the afterbirth is taken care of. As if on cue, I feel it down near my pelvis. The cord is still attached to it, so I reach down and tug it out. It's bloody and slimy and positively disgusting, but at least it's out and I can forget about it. I layer towels on the floor and move it onto them. The cord has stopped pulsing. I briefly wonder if I should get something to cut it before I realize that it has fallen off on its own. That takes care of that.

I refuse to let my baby sleep on the drafty floor, in the dead of winter, in the midst of a blizzard. I need to get us onto the bed so we can both sleep. I make sure there is nothing else coming out of me before I gather up my baby and slowly rise to a standing position. My leg muscles have almost nothing left. They shiver and shake as I walk very slowly toward the bed. Though all of the pillows are now on the floor, the quilt is still perfectly spread. My strength is limited, so I gently lay the baby onto the far-end of the quilt. She stirs a little but does not wake. I have to kneel down on my knees and crawl to get the pillows, since standing is incredibly draining. I am not so stupid as to toss the pillows up onto the bed, because I don't want any to land on the baby. I force myself to stand again so I can get myself and the pillows onto the bed. It takes a few minutes since my muscles are still trembling in protest, but I manage. Once I've adjusted the pillows, I pull back the quilt enough for us to both get under it without doing too much jostling. I scoop the baby back up into my arms and lie down with her.

Once I am under a blanket do I finally feel how exhausted and utterly relieved I am. My baby lies beside me, asleep, breathing softly, her cherub's face still and peaceful. I put an arm around her and move myself a little closer so that I'm nearly curled over her, my nose barely touching her forehead, my arm encircling her. The last thing I remember before I drift off is her quiet, peace-filled breathing.

* * *

 

I wake up to a small wail coming from my side. My eyes don't open immediately, as I am still too warm and sleepy to register anything. Then the wail gets louder, and I begin to wake up a little more.

My lashes part to see my baby, half uncovered by her blankets, crying.

I sit up instantly, gathering my child into my arms and wrapping her blankets back around her.

“Oh,” I say, thanking the heavens that I woke up when I did. “Okay. It's okay. It's all right, sweet girl. Everything's okay. Mama's here. Mama's got you.”

Luckily, she doesn't seem too shaken up, meaning she couldn't have been uncovered for too long. When I've opened my nightgown and she's suckling contentedly, I sigh and sit back against my pillows.

A gray dawn has just begun to creep through the window.

I look down at the baby. She looks back at me with those clear, blue eyes. I run a hand over the silky dark hair on her head. I touch her soft cheek.

I suddenly hear an odd buzz and then a dull thud. The lights come back on. Which means the phone will work. I have to call Peeta. He'll be disappointed that he wasn't here, but he'll be happier to hear that we're both all right. And we both seem to be.

I look outside and suddenly realize that the blizzard has slowed to flurries. So then Peeta can come home.

I can't move very far with my baby in my arms, but I manage to finally reach the phone. I dial the mayor's house. It rings for a few minutes before someone picks up.

“Hello?”

My voice, for some reason, has started to tremble. “Is Peeta Mellark there?”

“Yes, he's been here all night. Who is this?”

“His wife. Can you put him on, please?”

“Hold on.”

Silence, and then I hear the sound of the phone being picked back up. My heart leaps for joy at the sound of my husband's breathing. Peeta. I don't think I've ever loved him more.

He sounds anxious.

“Katniss? Is everything okay?”

“Peeta,” I say, before I burst into tears.

“Katniss, what's wrong? What happened?”

“She's here,” I tell him, my voice shaking worse than ever. “She's here and she's breathing, Peeta.”

“What? What are you talking about? Who's there?”

“The baby came.”

Peeta is silent for a moment. When he speaks again, he sounds as if he's just been doused in ice water.

“Wha – you – you had the baby? When?”

“I gave birth last night,” I say, calming my voice down a little so Peeta will not think something's wrong with me or with the baby.

“Oh - oh my god. Oh my god.”

“I know,” I laugh through my tears. “I can't believe it.”

“I can't believe I missed it. I'm so sorry, Katniss.”

“It's okay,” I sob over the phone. “She's okay.”

“She?” Peeta asks, and I hear his voice start to tremble.

“It's a girl,” I say. “She's so beautiful. She's so beautiful, Peeta.”

“Oh my god,” he says again, and he starts crying. Which makes me cry even harder.

“When are you coming home?”

“We had to wait for the blizzard to let up. I'll be there soon. Stay where you are. I'll bring a doctor.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

* * *

 

Peeta is here in what feels like record time. The moment I hear him on the stairs I smile in relief. I'm sitting up in bed, waiting for him, the baby sleeping peacefully in my arms.

The door creaks open slowly.

Peeta. My wonderful Peeta. The minute he sees me, he says “Don't move,” before he ducks out into the hallway and calls, “She's in here.”

Then Peeta moves toward me and my lips are on his in seconds. He has his hands on my face and is pressing small kisses all over it, mumbling “Thank God you're alright, thank God.”

“Baby's alright, too,” I say, and he looks down at her for the first time.

I move the blankets away from her face so he can really see her. I watch his eyes fill with our daughter, watch fat tears bead at the corners of the blue irises and spill down his cheeks.

“Oh, Katniss,” he whispers. “She's beautiful.”

He looks back up at me and I almost want to weep at how much utter happiness is shining in his eyes. He leans his forehead onto mine and I close my eyes, wanting to just breathe him in.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” I say back.

Peeta kisses me, and then gazes back down at the baby.

“And I love you,” he says, running a finger over her cheek.

“You should hold her,” I say.

The doctor comes in, but Peeta barely notices him. He tentatively holds out his arms and I transfer the baby to him. The baby looks so comfortable and safe and right in Peeta's arms that I nearly start crying again. She stirs, sensing the difference between my arms and Peeta's, and Peeta and I watch her eyes open for the second time. At the least, both of us can share this moment.

“Hello there,” says Peeta, tenderly touching the dark hair on her head, tears running down his cheeks. “You look just like your mama.”

She stirs just slightly as he kisses her head very gently.

He's smiling so hard and the tears keep coming. I'm crying along with him, beaming.

The doctor comes over to the other side of the bed, spreading a soft blanket onto the quilt.

“If you would allow me to, I would like to examine her and clean her off a little. In fact, Peeta – you can give your daughter her first bath. I'll show you how. I'll examine her here on the other side of the bed so you can see how everything is going. Peeta, if I may?”

Peeta reluctantly hands our daughter over to the doctor, who gently lies her on the blanket and uncovers her from her bundle. The change in temperature seems to wake her, and she starts to cry.

“Oh, I know,” says the doctor gently. “Not fun. This will only take a minute. Why don't you come over here, Dad? She might want a hand to hold.

Cord fell off, I see,” he says. “Perfectly normal, nothing to worry about. And the afterbirth is – ”

Peeta, who had been in the process of moving toward them, has only just stopped short at the sight of the mess on the floor in front of the bed.

“What-”

“It's over there,” I explain to the doctor, wiping my eyes and pointing. “That's where I had the baby.”

“Right. We can take care of that.”

The baby's wailing brings Peeta back to his senses. He moves toward the doctor until he is leaning over the baby. He reaches out a finger to her tiny, grasping hand and she clings onto it. Her crying dies down to the occasional unhappy whimper as the doctor continues to examine her.

“It's okay,” Peeta whispers, his thumb rubbing over her small fingers. “It's okay. Daddy's here.”

Once the doctor has deemed her healthy, he briefly runs out to the hallway and returns with a small tub.

"Come here, Peeta. Let's get her a little more clean, shall we?"

I watch Peeta take the warm washcloth that the doctor wets for him and very gently run it over her tiny body, murmuring comfort when she fusses. Once Peeta's got the hang of it, the doctor leaves the room to get a bucket and puts the placenta and its supporting towels in it.

"Let's face it," he says to me. "Those stains are never coming out."

When the doctor returns, he uncovers the quilt. I am shocked to see that I have leaked blood all over my sheets.

"Perfectly normal," says the doctor, without batting an eye. "You'll have to wear padded undergarments until that stops. I brought some of those."

The doctor helps me sit up on the edge of the bed and slips me into something that looks very much like a diaper. I'm too tired to argue, and I certainly don't want to stain anything else of ours.

While the doctor is getting the sheets, I kneel next to the small tub and watch Peeta wash the baby. She seems a little calmer now, if not sleepier.

"Do you want a turn?" Peeta asks.

"Sure," I say, taking the cloth from him. I submerge it in the warm bathwater and run it over the baby. She fusses at first, feeling that Peeta is gone, but I soon realize that she is most familiar with my hands, and she calms down once she realizes that it is me who is washing her.

"You're good at that," Peeta says.

Coming from Peeta, this is a significant compliment. "You're better at it than me."

Peeta shakes his head, smiling. 

Once the doctor gets the rest of the room cleaned up, he allows me to wrap the baby in a towel and hold her. Peeta helps us get under the covers, so we can both go back to sleep. Peeta lies down on the bed next to me, one hand on the baby's head, stroking her hair. At some point, I believe the doctor leaves. We do not see him go.

"Did we thank - ?" I begin.

"I told him," says Peeta.

Peeta moves his hand to my cheek. His eyes are pure sunlight, and the peaceful joy in his voice is something that I suspect will stay with me for many years.

“Thank you.”

I shake my head.

“Thank you,” I murmur back, my eyelids drooping closed.

“What for?”

“For asking me.”

“Huh?”

“Asking me. To have a baby.”

I take his warm hand in mine and squeeze it as hard as I can, hoping to get my last words in as I finally allow sleep to claim me, my husband rubbing my cheek with his thumb and my baby daughter asleep between us, breathing little feather breaths that are my lullaby.

"Thank you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Coming soon: spring rain.


End file.
